


Liminal Space

by Raine_Wynd



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Cabin Fic, Fae & Fairies, Friendship, Gen, Magic, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:07:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29234244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raine_Wynd/pseuds/Raine_Wynd
Summary: When Booker takes Copley's invitation to check out his new property in northern England, what happens next surprises them both.
Relationships: Booker | Sebastian le Livre & James Copley
Comments: 10
Kudos: 14
Collections: Old Guard Server Exchange





	Liminal Space

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goseaward](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goseaward/gifts).



> Thanks to Rhiannon Shaw and starwatcher for their assistance in breaking my block on this fic.

Traveling with James Copley to check out a property he had inherited from a cousin seemed harmless enough. A brief weekend trip to reassure Copley that the cabin and property he had inherited was safe, and Booker would be back in Paris by Sunday afternoon.

The property turned out to be a small farm, bordered by stone walls on three sides, with a stunning view of the rolling moorland. The walls looked high enough to keep in sheep. The primary structure on the property was a large, two-story cobblestone barn; a second, smaller structure was a storage shed. Overall, the property needed landscaping or at least a mowing. Booker noted the small, overgrown vegetable garden to the left of the storage shed and dismissed it as part of the “needs landscaping” list.

James looked a little stunned. “What the hell am I going to do with this place?” he wondered. “I’m no farmer.”

“Let’s look inside before you decide,” Booker suggested. He noted the solar panels on the roof, the wide windows on the upstairs, and suspected the barn no longer served its original purpose. An iron horseshoe hung over the peephole on the front door. The door itself seemed heavier than a standard front door.

Inside, the interior looked like something out of a home decorator’s idea of “comfortable meets country.” Instead of the standard home layout, the floor plan was flipped, with the three bedrooms on the first floor and the open-plan great room on the second.

“Did you inherit the furniture too?” Booker wondered.

Copley looked stunned. “When the lawyer said it was a barn with all the contents, I expected some rusty tools, maybe a riding mower,” he said, gesturing to the showcase before them. “This looks ready to be on an Airbnb listing.”

“Looks like your cousin used to rent out this place,” Booker noted, having found a thin binder full of instructions on the entryway table near the door. The binder included Internet access instructions, a warning about running the washer and dryer at the same time, and instructions for when the electricity cut out in a storm. The latter, which started with an admonishment not to panic, made Booker grin. He showed Copley the instructions.

Copley grinned and shook his head. “That explains why it still smells like lemon-scented cleaner. He must’ve had a regular cleaning service.”

“Looks like it, but he skimped on the landscaping. How long ago did your cousin die?”

“Three months. Didn’t know he was dead until the lawyer contacted me.” Copley shook his head. “We were closer when we were kids. As adults… I had a lot of stuff I couldn’t talk about it and Jeffrey didn’t like it.” He sighed and shook his head again. “Guess that answers my question about whether this place is safe,” he muttered. Relief radiated out of him. “And here I thought we’d have to camp out.”

Booker chuckled and set down the bags of gear and clothing he had carried in with him. “Well, do you still want to stay here? At first glance, I’d say this as modern as a converted barn gets.”

Copley looked at him as he gestured with his palms up and his hands open wide. “Might as well; we’ve made the drive, unless you have somewhere you’d rather be?”

Booker bit back the knee-jerk reply, aware Copley had offered this trip as a gesture of friendship and as an alternative to the binge-drinking Booker had been doing of late. “No.”

“Let’s unpack our stuff in the bedrooms, unpack the cooler into the fridge, and then walk around? We can see where the edges of the property line run.”

Booker nodded. He had nowhere else to be. Obsessing over what Andy, Joe, Nicky, and Nile were doing now without him would only result in him spiraling further into depression. Copley’s invitation felt like an apology. Booker admitted he liked the other man enough to want to accept it. Binge drinking reminded him of how lost and alone he was in this fast-placed world and how much he wanted to escape from it. Staying in a quiet, ultra-modernized cottage in the woods, with a man who wanted to hear his stories, sounded a lot more pleasant than the camping Booker had been anticipating.

Seeing Booker’s agreement, Copley suggested, “I’ll take the master bedroom. Pick whichever of the other bedrooms you want, since it looks like they’re decorated the same. Meet you in the kitchen in about twenty minutes?”

“Sounds good.”

When Booker unpacked the cooler, he discovered that Copley’s idea of “roughing it” included a surprising assortment of ingredients. The amount of food explained why the cooler had wheels. Some part of Booker sighed in relief as he realized Copley had not expected him to hunt for their meals.

“No reason to act like we’re in the middle of a war zone,” Copley replied, when Booker commented on the variety. “I like to cook. My uncle used to take me camping, and he hated hotdogs. Called them unfit for human consumption.”

Booker laughed at that and stored the bread, meat, vegetables, and spices into their proper locations in the kitchen. “He sounds like an interesting man,” he said, inviting Copley to tell him more.

“He always loved the fantasical; if he hadn’t had to raise a family, I’m pretty sure he would’ve preferred to write and tell stories. He had some amazing ones, and told me all the folk tales and superstitions my parents insisted were garbage.”

Booker grinned. “And you, being curious, would go research all of them.”

Copley returned the grin even as he ran a nervous hand through his hair. “Drove my parents crazy with wanting all the books and checking out websites after I was supposed to be asleep.”

Together, they unpacked the cooler and grocey bags Copley had brought. Then the two men headed out of the barn-turned-house.

They saw the neighbor’s sheep grazing in the pasture, but no other people. That suited Booker fine. Copley asked Booker about a photo he had found—a mission Booker had almost forgotten about—and it took Booker several minutes before he realized he was outpacing Copley. Booker slowed his pace out of consideration and got a relieved look in exchange.

“Sorry.”

“No, you reminded me I need to do less sitting and more moving around.” Copley inhaled and exhaled deeply several times, regaining his breath, as he looked around. “This place doesn’t feel like it’s four hours from London. I don’t know about you, but it feels like it’s never changed.”

Booker raised an eyebrow at that statement. He considered arguing the point, but then he took a second look. He couldn’t see any electrical or transmission wires anywhere; the nearest village, a tiny hamlet, was a mile south of their location. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it was his farm from before he had gone off to war. The thought made him remember how much he appreciated he was not a farmer anymore, even as he grieved his family.

“Lacks the odor of manure,” he told Copley, uncomfortable. Something about the place’s quiet bothered him, on a level he couldn’t name. He told himself he was being way too paranoid. It was a lovely country property, nothing more.

Copley barked a laugh. “True enough. If we get closer to the sheep or the wind shifts, I’m sure we’ll be smelling it.”

Upon their return to the house, they found someone had wedged a note in the space between the door and the jamb. Copley opened it, shook his head, and started to crumple it before Booker stopped him.

“What does it say?”

“Said to stay inside after sundown, close the drapes tightly, and lock the doors.” He passed the note.

Booker unfolded it and noted it was only signed, “Your neighbors.” He frowned. “Did your cousin ever say anything about this place?”

“Not that I can recall. He loved coming out here; I remember that much.”

With a shrug, Booker handed the note back to Copley. “Guess they assume as city people, we’d trip over our shoelaces in the dark.”

Copley grinned at that as they stepped into the house. “Well, they might be right about me more than you.”

* * *

Without the need to cook over a campfire, dinner tasted better than Booker expected. After they had cleaned the dishes and disposed of the trash, Copley tuned the TV to a sports channel, and found a soccer game in progress. To Booker’s relief, Copley did not expect him to carry on a conversation beyond commenting on the game. When it was over, Copley bid him good night, leaving Booker alone in the living room.

Hating the silence and not ready to face an empty bed, Booker turned the volume down low on the TV and watched until he fell asleep.

Sometime later, something woke him. Startled by the lack of sound, Booker looked at his watch and saw it was 3 AM. He glanced at the TV and realized it must have shut off automatically.

Then he heard a whisper calling his name.

 _Sébastien, I’ve missed you,_ the female voice said.

Recognition of his late wife’s voice slammed into him even as logic told him she had been dead for centuries. The pistol he kept with him leaped into his hand without a second’s hesitation.

 _Sébastien, come outside; I’ve been lonely for so long,_ the voice said again.

Unnerved by that voice, Booker rose to his feet to turn on the lights. Nothing happened. With a curse, he fumbled his way down to the guest bedroom, dug into his bag, and pulled out a flashlight. As he stepped out in the hallway, he glanced out the entryway window to see fog had risen, shrouding the night in deeper darkness.

Every instinct for danger Booker ever had screamed in his head to leave this place. That instinct made him reach for a knife, check the bullets in his gun, and don socks and boots. Swearing again, he checked on Copley.

He stepped into the master bedroom, expecting to see a grand four-poster bed set.

Instead, he found himself in a ballroom, circa 1850. Memories of that time made him hesitate, but his instincts blared an alarm. With regret filling him, he turned to head back, only to realize the door was gone.

Booker was not superstitious, but being immortal had taught him the world was full of things he had never dreamed plausible. He took a deep breath and studied the room, looking for an exit.

“Will you dance with me?”

The woman who approached him resembled his late wife, but Booker was not fooled. Whatever this was—and he was certain she was made of magic—was not his wife. He had never afforded the delicate lace and intricate beadwork of a dress like the one this creature wore—at least, not while his wife was alive. “No, my lady, but thank you for the invitation.”

“Your friend is enjoying himself; you should, too. You’re too sad. It is a night to celebrate.”

“What are you celebrating?”

“The summer solstice, when the walls between worlds grow thin, and we can grant your fondest desire.”

Recognition of this creature slammed into Booker like a freight train. “Ah, but what will you take from me in return? Nothing comes for free, especially not from a lady of the Fair Folk.”

Naming her made her shift her disguise from that of his late wife to her true self—a ruthlessly sculpted caricature of a woman, albeit one with gossamer wings patterned like a butterfly’s. The delicate lace of her dress looked like spiderwebs. She smelled of loam, wet with the morning dew.

“Ah, but your heart does not want the gifts granted to you; this much I see.”

Certain it was a trap, Booker met her gaze. Instinct told him she sensed he was immortal; someone like him would be a feast for a fae. He had had enough of being someone’s meal ticket after what happened at Merrick Pharmaceuticals. To spend the rest of his life trapped in Faerie, unable to escape, sounded like a far worse hell. He wanted to die of a means of his choosing, but this avenue had never made it on his worst-case wish list.

“And what gifts might they be, my lady?” On a hunch, he added, “For I have been told it is unseemly to brag about one’s gifts. If I were to name them, you might take them from me the moment I spoke of them.” He hardened his tone. “No matter what my heart might desire.”

She eyed him warily as her face tightened waspishly. “You are no fun. Be gone with you.”

With that, the room suddenly returned to being a master bedroom—but without Copley in it. Alarmed, Booker searched the house, only to find the other man was nowhere in it. In desperation, he went through every closet, to no avail.

Booker took a deep breath. He was a trained soldier, capable of fighting a horde of armies, but there was nothing in the ‘how to fight’ rules he had learned about how to find someone who had vanished.

 _Think,_ he admonished himself. The devil on his shoulder urged him to drink until he fell asleep, in the hope Copley would appear in the morning.

Then he remembered what the fae had told him—that Copley was dancing and enjoying himself. Suddenly remembering the binder full of instructions, Booker headed back to the entryway. With a fervent urgency, Booker hoped the binder included this set of emergency circumstances.

The very last page warned, in bold red letters:

_If you hear someone whispering your name after sundown, do not go outside._

_Do not go outside after sundown alone._

_Do not go outside after sundown._

_Especially do not go outside after sundown within three days of any of the Equinoxes. The walls between worlds are thinner then and the owners of this house are not responsible for what happens then._

_If someone went outside after sundown, put a platter of honey by the door, then say aloud, “Maeve, Queen of the Fair Folk, please return [your friend’s name] so that we may give you the tribute we did not know to give. I left you honey on our doorstep.”_

_Say it three times._

_If this does not result in [Name] returning within twenty minutes, wait at the standing stones in the overgrown garden by the shed at sunrise with a blanket and some tea. Call your friend’s name and tell them to come home._

Booker stared at the page, incredulity filling him as he realized this had happened enough times to call for _instructions._ He cursed viciously and debated his next move.

Doing nothing might result in Copley returning, but given the reaction he had gotten from the lady fae, Booker doubted it. He checked the time and realized he had roughly an hour before dawn. With a deep sigh, he decided he had nothing to lose by following the instructions.

Booker wasted fifteen minutes looking for the honey, only to discover a large container of it in the cabinet above the stove. He poured a generous serving of it onto a small plate, which he carried over to the doorstep. He then cleared his throat, abruptly nervous, and said what the binder had told him to say.

Half an hour ticked by as Booker resisted the urge to check his watch for the passage of time. He had waited longer for a target to appear, with far more patience, but this was Copley. Copley’s relentless curiosity did not deserve to be rewarded with an eternity in Faerie. Fear filled Booker as he waited. None of the weapons he had brought had any power to do anything in this situation.

Nothing happened.

Booker fought the rising panic and tried to take faith in the binder’s instructions. He found the tea kettle in the kitchen, filled it with water, and set it to boil. He then found a tea strainer and a tin of tea, noting that while the tin was open, it did not smell stale. The scent made him remember one too many strategy meetings with Andy, Nicky, and Joe over campfires across a hundred half-forgotten battlefields. Somehow, that alone helped Booker find the strength and patience to wait longer. He used the time while the water boiled to find the thermal carafe Copley had brought with him and then emptied it and washed it. Once the water was ready and the tea steeped, he would fill it with the tea. When those tasks were complete, he grabbed the plaid wool blanket that had been draped over the back of the sofa and the steel folding chair he found in the coat closet. Booker then took himself, blanket, and carafe out to the standing stones.

Neither he nor Copley had paid close attention to the extent of the overgrown garden by the shed, too consumed with figuring out how far the property extended. Booker regretted that decision now. Here, in the foggy predawn, the garden’s vines, fallen stakes, and mounds of growth became an obstacle course. Booker’s swearing became verbose as he stubbed his toe on yet another unexpected obstacle to his forward progress. Turning, he backtracked, only to realize that the barn looked to be a mile away rather than a few yards.

“Damn Wonderland,” he muttered. “Go to my newly inherited property in the woods. It’ll be fun! Next time, Copley, you tell me about wanting to go anywhere with you, I’ll be busy, I swear I will.”

As if in response to his statement, the distance between where he stood and the standing stones lengthened.

Booker narrowed his eyes, realizing the magic in which he was trapped was listening. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want Copley back,” he clarified. “And at sunrise, which is five minutes from now, not at tomorrow’s sunrise after I’ve slogged three million miles to get to him. I’d rather not spend the rest of my life looking for him, thank you.”

Nothing happened. The standing stones loomed off in the distance.

“You’ve had your fun, proved I have a reason to keep going. I miss him and want him back, damn it. Happy now?”

Abruptly, the standing stones were within arm’s reach.

“Now, please return my friend, James Copley. I’ve tea and a blanket, and I’ve left honey on a plate on the doorstep.” Booker made his voice as firm as he could, unfolded the steel folding chair he had brought with him, and sat down.

He waited as the sunrise blossomed across the sky. Booker did not dare look back, but the scent of a garden ripe for the picking rose with the sun. He sensed that if he looked back, the garden would be ready for harvest.

A second after sunrise, Copley stumbled into the garden, shivering and looking confused.

“I was sleeping, and I felt a breeze from the window, so I got up,” he began. “I thought I heard someone whispering my name.”

“Tell me all about when we get back inside,” Booker urged. “Have some tea and let’s get this blanket around your shoulders.” He uncapped the carafe and handed it to Copley.

Grateful, Copley drank from the carafe. He looked past Booker and his eyes widened. “I thought the garden was dead.”

“It’s an illusion,” Booker told him as he refolded the folding chair. “Let’s go. Keep in mind that the barn isn’t that far.”

“In that case,” Copley capped the carafe as he spoke, “I’ll hold on to you. I don’t trust my sense of distance or time right now.”

Booker nodded agreement. In tense silence, they made their way through the lush garden and into the converted barn.

Once inside, Booker returned the folding chair to the coat closet and turned to Copley, who stared out the entryway window.

“The garden’s back to being overgrown. Part of me is grateful we didn’t think to check if any of the vegetables were harvestable.” Copley turned to face Booker.

“I’m sure this place would love it if you ate the vegetables out of the garden. Might be its way of ensuring someone stays with the property. The Fair Folk are sneaky that way; all the stories I’ve ever head are consistent about that.”

Copley grimaced at that assessment. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

“You okay?”

“I thought I was dreaming,” Copley said, shaking his head. He touched the fabric of his pajamas, as if to confirm it was real. “I was at a formal ball in the 1800s; a beautiful woman asked me to dance, and I didn’t think to say no. Somehow, my pajamas turned into formalwear.”

“You were in the land of the Fair Folk, at the Faerie Court. Did you eat or drink anything while you were there?”

Copley shook his head. “No, but I shouldn’t have touched anyone or anything. I thought I saw you from across the room and I tried to stop dancing, but I couldn’t break free. How did you get me back?”

In reply, Booker held up the binder. “Read the instructions.”

Copley stared at him, gobsmacked, then laughed ruefully. “That explains the note in the will about Jeffery leaving me detailed instructions. Or why his father, my uncle, told such real-sounding stories. Now I wonder how much he stayed here.” He shook his head. “If it’s all the same to you, would you mind keeping watch? I’m tired and want to sleep, but I don’t think I’ll sleep downstairs alone.”

Booker nodded, understanding. “I’ll bring some blankets up and you can crash out on the couch. We’ll decide what to do when you wake up.”

“I’m going to shower. I don’t think it’s smart to wear this again, do you?”

“Probably not. No telling what’s touched it.” Booker looked at what he had been wearing and grimaced. “Meet you in the living room in twenty, or would you rather I stood guard while you showered?”

“Much as I don’t want to say yes….” Copley looked at him. “This is not anything I ever thought was real.”

“Did you think immortality was?”

Copley barked a rueful laugh as he shook his head. “No. Guess that means that other things can be real, too.” He took a deep breath. “Part of me wants to run screaming out of here, pack our things and leave.” He took another deep breath. “I’m having a hard time convincing myself to not satisfy my curiosity about what makes the garden look alive, or why I wound up where I did.”

“I’d rather you didn’t, not on my watch,” Booker retorted. “Every story I’ve ever heard of related to the Fair Folk ends in disaster. You might wind up trapped forever. I’m not willing to learn if they’ll let you go a second time, now that they know how curious you are. But I’d rather we decide all that later, after you’ve had some sleep.” He favored Copley with a rueful smile. “Nothing good comes out of decisions made when you’re tired.”

“Good point.” Copley took a deep breath and nodded acceptance.

Booker wasn’t sure what Copley would decide to do. He was certain, though this converted barn was only safe for a limited time during the day. Preparations had to be made to ensure no one came to harm. Until then, all Booker could do was watch and wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback, such as kudos, comments, and constructive criticism, welcome - even after this fic is "old" and I've long since forgotten it exists.


End file.
